


Everything’s Okay

by squilf



Series: Britcollege ‘verse [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: Eames loves Arthur. Arthur loves him back. That doesn’t mean they’re happy.





	1. Eames

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [Fanfiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8541247/1/Everything-s-Okay) and [Livejournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/15146.html) in 2012.
> 
> I ended up taking a break from fandom for quite a few years, and never got around to completing this fic. However, the first two fics in the Britcollege ‘verse series are companion pieces that fit together and tell a whole story. So you can easily just read them. Although this fic goes into what happened next, it is quite different in tone and content. 
> 
> Looking at it now, I don’t think this fic is very good - there are _Eastenders_ levels of melodrama, Dickensian coincidences, and none of the characters ever seem to catch a break! But I think if you take it as a story like _Brokeback Mountain_ or _One Day_ that follows two characters over the course of several years and how their lives run separately and sometimes come back together, it kind of works. My writing has changed a lot in the last seven years, so maybe I’m being a bit harsh on myself. You can decide for yourselves!

September. Arthur first kisses him at band practice one afternoon. Casual, like that’s just what they do. Like it’s natural. Normal. Everyday. Eames thinks, _I could get used to kissing you every day_ , and kisses him back. Because loving someone is all the more wonderful when they love you too.

 

Ari hangs around after band practice. They sit on the back doorstep outside, drinking coffee.

“So you and Arthur, huh?” she says.

“Er, yeah. That happened.”

“Of course, I called it first. The way you looked at him when you met. Like…”

“Like what?”

“Like you couldn’t take your eyes off him.”

Eames smiles.

“I still can’t.”

Ari smiles, then stops.

“You know he… he’s not always okay. Well. Before you came, our drummer was this guy called Nash. Dom’s friend. Bit of a waster really. You know, drugs and that. But he and Arthur… I don’t really know what happened. But he didn’t treat Arthur right. He hurt him. And I don’t want that. Not for Arthur. So just… be careful with him. Take it one step at a time.”

Eames nods.

“I’ll go slow. It’s fine. I’ve got all the time in the world to woo him.”

 

* * *

 

October. As it turns out, he doesn’t.

  
Here is the way things should be: hardly changed at all. The Dream Workers still practising in Eames’ garage, playing Keane and First Aid Kit and Coldplay. Still tramping about college in ripped jeans and old Converses and tired Kasabian t-shirts, wearing their V Fest wristbands. Eames still hanging about the basketball court with his mates at lunchtime. But with some changes. With Arthur kissing Eames hello when he comes round for band practice. With them tramping around college together, Eames holding Arthur’s hand, or draping his arm round his shoulders, or threading his arm through Arthur’s. With Arthur coming to the basketball court and putting his fingers through the wire fencing and Eames coming out to kiss him, giving his mates the finger when they wolfwhistle. Things should be the same, but different. Better. But it’s not the way things are.

  
Because this is the way things are: changed completely. It’s Imran Ali’s fault. He’s in lower sixth, he’s angry, he’s ignorant. He picks a fight with Eames.

“Alright, gayboy?” he says.

“Fucking _brilliant_ ,” says Eames, and punches him square in the jaw.

They fight. Before long, everyone’s piling in – Imran’s mates against Eames’. Eames doesn’t know he has a knife until Imran’s on the ground, his blood seeping out across the tarmac. And then he doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

  
They tell him he’s lucky Imran wasn’t much hurt. They tell him he’s lucky Imran isn’t going to press charges. They tell him he’s lucky he’s not going to prison for this. But he doesn’t feel lucky at all. He gets expelled, of course. Again.

  
His parents want him to finish his A-Levels. There’s a place he can go. It’s hopelessly far away. He’s expecting Arthur to be angry, sad, upset. But he’s not. He’s just. Cold.

“My parents are sending me to fucking _Wales_.”

Arthur just shrugs.

“You should just be bloody thankful that’s where you’re going, and not to prison.”

“I was never going to go to prison. Imran didn’t even press charges. Cowardly little fuck.”

Arthur looks at him.

“You have _no idea_ , Eames, do you? You really have no fucking idea.”

Eames is starting to think he doesn’t.

 

* * *

  
  
November. And that’s it. He’s going to lose Arthur. His darling, _darling_ Arthur, who he’s loved since he first saw him, all pale and quiet and vulnerable. They sit at the train station, numb.

“Is this what happened before?” Arthur asks, “At those private schools?”

“More or less. I’m okay for a while, and then I’m not. I just… I get angry.”

Arthur nods, looks down.

“I _was_ trying,” says Eames, “For you. I didn’t want to leave this time. I wanted to be with you.”

“Well, you can’t be with me. Not anymore. None of this even matters now. We weren’t together, and now we’re not going to be. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Eames reaches over, takes his hand.

“My darling, _of course_ it does. Love always matters.”

Arthur looks up at him.

“How can you love me when you’re not even here anymore?”

  
That’s the question. How can he love Arthur now. Now that they’re so far apart. Now that they’re not going to see each other for months. Now that Eames has been such a fucking idiot.

 

* * *

  
  
December. And this is the answer. It’s easy to love Arthur. He’s loved him for months. He just doesn’t stop. He writes. He writes Arthur long letters in his scrawled handwriting, tells him everything. What the people are like, what his lessons are like, what the weather is like. (Bloody awful, on all counts.) Tells Arthur he misses him, wants him, loves him. Then he tears them all up.

  
It’s another private school. There are rooms for the international students, so Eames stays with them. They’re from Hong Kong. They speak near-perfect English, are painfully polite. They leave Eames to himself. Everyone leaves Eames to himself.

  
And then there’s Fischer. He’s dangerously beautiful. Forget-about-your-boyfriend-and-fuck-him beautiful. He’s also a wanker. Takes one look at Eames and dismisses him. Acts like he’s superior, like he can be a dick because his daddy’s rich. Eames gives as good as he gets, and then some. A fortnight in and Eames has shoved his head against the wall. Gives him a black eye. He’s not so beautiful now.

  
“I think you should hit him again,” says one of the Hong Kong boarders, “Get his other eye. He’ll look like a panda then.”

Eames chuckles.

“You got a name?” asks the boarder.

“Eames.”

“Well, Eames, any guy who hurts Fischer is a friend to me. I’m Saito.”

You might think that things are better, when you have a friend. But that really depends who your friend is.

 

* * *

  
  
January. Here’s the thing: Saito is a bastard. And here’s another thing: Eames kind of is too. Saito is wicked. He’s intelligent, he’s bored, and he doesn’t have much in the way of morals. He’s a terrifying enemy, and a terrifying friend. They get on like a house on fire. They steal things. Money from the office safe, food from the kitchens, laptops from the IT rooms.

  
“When’s the last time you got any?” Saito asks when they’re playing poker one evening.

Eames shrugs, fingers through his cards.

“Ages ago. Start of college. Guy called Neil. Punched him in the face for calling me a gayboy. Ended up with him giving me head. You?”

Saito lays down his cards, a Full House.

“Fischer,” he says.

And he doesn’t need to say anything more.

 

* * *

  
  
February. College is all A2s and uni and UCAS and student finance. Eames doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s missed the deadline for applying to uni now anyway. It’s too late now.

  
Arthur phones. They don’t talk for long.

“I haven’t heard from you,” says Arthur.

“I’ve been busy.”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay. You?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

A pause.

“So, what’s been happening?” says Eames.

“Not much. We came third in the battle of the bands.”

“Well done.”

“Thanks. We did an acoustic set. No drummer.”

“You haven’t found a replacement, then?”

“No-one good. We’re shit with drummers. We’re like MCR or something.”

Eames chuckles.

“Does that make you Frank?”

“I guess.”

Arthur takes a breath. Then, “I just got an offer. Oxford University. Natural Sciences.”

“That’s great,” Eames says.

Tries to sound like he means it.

“It’s funny,” says Arthur, “I’d never have thought about going to uni, before. I’d have been too scared. But now… Now, I don’t feel like there’s much left to scare me. I think… it’s going to be good. What about you?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“Eames, I –”

“I’ve – I’ve got to go now. But, it was good to hear from you. Um, all the best, and all that.”

He hears Arthur sigh, a wave of static over the phone.

“Goodbye, Eames.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

  
It’s only later that he realises it’s Valentine’s Day.

 

* * *

  
  
March. The school starts to pick up on the thefts. Eames is more scared than he lets on.

“The best way to avoid suspicion,” says Saito, when they’re in the gameskeeper’s shed, splitting the cash from the canteen till, “Is to pass it onto someone else.”

Eames grins and steals the cigarette from his mouth, taking a pull.

“Who are you thinking of?”

“Who do you think?”

Eames laughs.

“That’s cruel.”

“So what? He’s a wanker.”

“So are you.”

Saito steals his cigarette back.

“And yet you put up with me. What is it you fancy? The money, or me?”

“A bit of both, love,” says Eames, winking.

They fight for the cigarette.       

  
Fischer thinks he’s got them trapped.

“I know it was you,” he says when he finds them, smoking behind the bikeshed, “You fucking fags. And I’m going to prove it.”

“Ooh, we’re scared,” says Saito, blowing smoke in his face.

“You should be. This could get you expelled.”

“Fischer,” says Eames, “Sweetheart. I’ve been expelled from thirteen schools. Do you really think I’m fussed about getting expelled from this one?”

“And don’t call us fags,” says Saito, “This is an all-boys’ school, what did you fucking expect?”

  
The cleaners find a paper bag of notes stuffed under Fischer’s bed. He says it was Eames and Saito. They say it wasn’t. Say Fischer has something against them. Say they’re perfectly innocent.

  
They give Fischer the finger when he walks out of the school gates, snorting with laughter.

“Fucking _mug_ ,” says Saito.

“Oh, you’re a bad man. You’re enjoying this.”

“And you’re not? You’re just as bad as me, Eames. You just tell yourself you’re good.”

Saito leans in, covers Eames’ chest with his hand.

“But you know, in here, you’re rotten.”

“My heart’s rotten?”

“Of course it is. You’re a dirty little thief, and a violent one. You might like to think your heart’s full of that kid back home, but it’s not. It’s full of your greed. Your anger.”

“How do you know about Arthur?”

“You should find a better way of getting rid of your letters to him than just tearing them up.”

“You nosy bastard,” says Eames, and smacks him upside the head.

Saito just keeps laughing.

 

* * *

  
  
April.

“I’m fucking bored,” says Saito, when they’re out in the grounds, chain smoking and sharing the flask of godawful whiskey they nicked off one of the cleaners, “Let’s steal something.”

“We _always_ steal things.”

“Well, we’ve either got to steal stuff or fuck, because otherwise, I’ll _die_ of boredom.”

“You want to fuck me ‘cause you’re bored?”

“No, I want you to fuck me. I have since you came here. Being bored just makes me want it worse.”

“What do you want to steal?”

Saito rolls his eyes and groans.

“You’re not holding out for that kid _Arthur_ , are you? _Jesus_. He must be something fucking special.”

Eames shrugs.

“He kind of is.”

“How far d’you get?”

Eames pulls a face.

“Er, first base.”

“You are throwing me over because of a guy you got to _first base_ with? You fucking saddo.”

“Awh, I love you too, babes.”

Saito laughs and finishes the whiskey.

  
That’s when Eames realises he needs to see Arthur.

 

* * *

  
May. He gets the train home on Wednesday morning. Turns up on Arthur’s doorstep.

“ _Eames_! What are you doing here?”

Eames tries to think of something to say to him. But he can’t speak. He just steps forward and envelops Arthur in a tight hug.

“Oh, darling,” he says, because he can’t say anything else.

  
Which is how they bunk off college so Eames can spill his guts out to Arthur. They end up on Arthur’s bed, Eames curled up on his side, his head in Arthur’s lap, Arthur’s arms around him. The curtains drawn, muted light falling on the small room. It’s the first time Eames has felt safe in months. He tells Arthur everything, sins spilling from his lips, and Arthur listens quietly, fingers stroking through his hair, calming him down.

“So that’s it,” says Eames, “I’m a liar, and a thief, and a cheat. I’m a fucking nobody.”

Arthur pulls Eames up to face him, holding his head in his hands.

“Eames. You are very, very beautiful and very, very loved. Okay?”

Eames smiles a little, looks down. Kisses Arthur’s hand, resting by his lips. Wants to kiss him all over. Lips, neck, stomach. Arthur’s thumb rubs across Eames’ lower lip. Eames has a sudden urge to bite it. To take Arthur’s fingers into his mouth and lick them, the way he did when Arthur pushed icing into his mouth at Dom’s birthday. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “What should I do?”

“You,” says Arthur, “Should go back there. Do your exams. Don’t get yourself kicked out. Just do your exams, then come back.”

Eames nods.

“I’ll get the three o’clock train.”

“Okay.”

“What should I tell them I’ve been doing?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Say you came home to see your boyfriend.”

Something inside Eames twists, hot and scared. He reaches out for Arthur, puts his hands on his shoulders.

“Arthur…”

Arthur smiles, his eyes flicking down then up, like the massive fucking tease he is.

“When you come back, I’ll be at the station, waiting for you.”

 

* * *

  
  
June. Eames does everything Arthur said. He goes back, does his exams, doesn’t get himself kicked out.

 

* * *

  
  
July. He does his exams, then comes back. He gets the train home, looks for Arthur’s face at the station. Doesn’t see it. He waits. And waits. And Arthur doesn’t come. It doesn’t break his heart. It just bruises it.

Arthur’s at his door the next day.

“Eames. Yesterday… something came up.”

Eames nods curtly, one hand braced against the doorframe. Confrontational.

“What kind of something?”

“It’s just… it was this guy I used to know.”

Something curdles inside Eames. A sickly-hot jealousy.

“Nash?”

“How do you know about him?”

Eames shrugs.

“I just heard you had a thing. Guess you still do now.”

“What? No! Eames, you don’t understand, I had to go to the –”

“I don’t want to hear it. You can fuck off back to your fuck buddy.”

Arthur’s crying now, confusion and fear scrawled across his face.

“ _Eames_! How can you _say_ that? Don’t you know me? I’m Arthur. I’m _your_ Arthur. Your darling.”

“Not mine,” says Eames, “Not anymore.”

And shuts the door.

 

* * *

  
  
August. He knows he’s been stupid. Knows he’s being stupid. Knows Arthur cares about him. Wants him. Maybe even loves him. Not that he deserves it. Certainly not now. But he’s too stubborn, too scared, to admit that. To ask Arthur to forgive him.

  
Ari gives him a reality check. Has a stand-up argument with him on the street when he’s taking out the bins.

“Stop being a twat.”

“Nice to see you too, Ari.”

“Seriously, Eames. Arthur forgives you for all your fuck-ups and _this_ is how you repay him? By accusing him of going back to his ex the fucking _junkie_?”

“He did it before. He could be doing it now.”

“Fuck you, Eames. I _told_ you to treat him right. And I thought you would. I trusted you. _Arthur_ trusted you. For all that you claim to care about him, you really don’t give a shit, do you? You tell yourself you love Arthur, but you know, in your heart, you’re – you’re…”

“What?”

“Rotten,” she says, and leaves.

  
“You can punch me if you like. I deserve it.”

It’s not much of an opening line. Eames isn’t much of anything, nowadays. Arthur looks at him, a hunched figure outside his front door, his eyes hard.

“Is this you apologising for calling me a whore?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. You can start with ‘sorry’.”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur. I shouldn’t have said that. I was stupid and I was jealous. When I didn’t see you at the train station, I just – I got angry. I’ve always been scared you’d like someone else better than me. God knows, you deserve someone better than me, darling.”

“I thought I wasn’t your darling anymore?” Arthur says, bitter and cold.

Eames looks up at him, tired and lost and a little bit broken.

“You were from the moment I first saw you. You always will be.”

Arthur’s eyes soften.

“Eames, Nash d–”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I believe you.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Would you like some more grovelling?”

Arthur’s lips twitch into a smile.

“It wouldn’t go amiss.”

Eames takes his hand, kisses it.

“My darling. You really are very, _very_ beautiful. And you have a great arse.”

“Eames!” says Arthur, laughing.

“Sorry. Some things just have to be said.”

“You’re forgiven. For saying I have a great arse, that is. The other thing… maybe. We’ll see.”

It’s not much. But it’s a start.

 


	2. Arthur

September. Arthur kisses Eames. It’s everything he’s wanted for a long, long time. It’s the start of something. It’s the start of Eames and him.

 

Saturday afternoon. Band practice.

“Ari,” says Eames, looking through her notebook, “Are you writing  _lovesongs_?”

“What?” says Arthur, leaning over his shoulder to see.

“Give that back!” says Ari, grabbing the notebook.

“Who are they for?” Eames asks teasingly.

Ari turns crimson. Her eyes flicker across the room to Dom.

“No-one!”

“ _Really_?” says Eames, nodding towards Dom.

“Shut up!”

Arthur and Eames burst into laughter. Ari gives them the finger and stalks off.

“Those two? Really?” says Eames.

“Ssh!” says Arthur, sitting on him.

“You don’t write me lovesongs.”

Arthur blushes and looks down.

“You  _do_?” says Eames.

Arthur shrugs.

“They’re not very good. They’re just – I don’t know. Happy.”

Eames presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Happy is good.”

Arthur smiles.

“Could I have a listen sometime?” asks Eames.

“Maybe. If you’re good.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur applies to university early deadline. His Physics teacher thinks Oxford’s worth a shot. So he applies for Natural Sciences. He wouldn’t have, before. He would have said it was never going to happen. But now, things are different. He’s kissed Eames. Anything could happen. Eames could be his boyfriend. Arthur could go to Oxford. They could do anything.

 

* * *

 

October. Arthur’s happy, until he’s not. For a moment, he has Eames, and all that could mean, and all they could have. And then he doesn’t. Eames hits a kid at college. And then he stabs him. Expulsion is inevitable. Imprisonment is possible.

 

“How could you  _do_  this?” Arthur cries, “How could you do this to me? After everything that’s happened. You just throw me away because you can’t control your fucking temper. You make me  _scared_  of you, Eames. You stabbed some kid you don’t even know. What could you do to me?”

“Arthur, I would  _never_  do anything to hurt you.”

“You already have.”

 

The kid’s called Imran. Arthur finds him, begs him not to press charges. He tells him he’ll do anything he wants. Just so long as he lets Eames walk. Imran watches him beg, desperate and lost. He seems to enjoy it.

“What is ya, then? ‘is boyfriend?”

“No. I’m – I’m just a friend.”

“But ya fancy ‘im, right?”

“I… I just don’t want him to go to prison.”

Imran shrugs.

“Bet ‘e’d love it there. All them fags. I’m doin’ ‘im a favour.”

“Please, Imran. I mean it. I’ll do anything. Give you anything you want.”

Of course,  _anything_ is a big promise to make. But it doesn’t feel so big when you’re in love.

 

* * *

 

November. Eames’ parents send him away to a boarding school in Wales.  _Good_ , says Arthur’s head, because it’s best if Eames is far away from Imran.  _Bad_ , says Arthur’s heart, because it’s awful if Eames is far away from him. Either way, he goes. Arthur thinks, maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t talk to Eames. Because now, Eames won’t fuck things up again. Now, Arthur won’t get hurt anymore. Fuck Eames. Fuck all the time Arthur’s wasted on him. He doesn’t need him anymore. He’s better off without him.

 

It’s drugs. That’s what Imran wants. Someone to get hold of them, so he doesn’t have to. A delivery boy. So, Arthur walks down dark streets late at night, gets the stuff, takes it to Imran and his mates. And that’s what his life has become now. He’s breaking the law so a bunch of dirty teenagers who treat him like shit can get high every Friday night. He hates them. He comes to hate them the more he knows them. The more they use him, the more they taunt him, the more they call him  _Arty_ , the more they push him around. But he doesn’t stop. Because he’s doing this for Eames. He’s doing this because Eames saved him once. He’s doing this because he was a bloody idiot and went and fell in love with him. And he shuts himself in the bathroom and starts cutting himself again, because that’s what he does when he doesn’t know how to cope anymore.

 

Eames feels very, very far away. Oxford feels further. Still, he sits an admission test. He goes to an interview. Then there’s nothing he can do anymore. He just has to wait.

 

* * *

  
December. The band keeps practising together, in spite of it all. Their friend is gone, Arthur’s gone quiet and moody again, and they haven’t found another drummer. But they play on. Ari persuades them to enter the battle of the bands. It’s full of college kids, and some a little older. The first round’s in a packed club, dark and hot, crammed with teenagers, bodies pressed against bodies. Alcohol and glass on the floor, the lights pointing at the stage white and harsh. They stand backstage, waiting to go on, Arthur biting at the sleeve of his hoodie, Ari twisting her fingers in her tangled hair, Dom drumming his fingers along the wall. Ari squeezes Arthur’s hand before they go out. Arthur gives her a small smile and follows Dom out onto the stage.

“We’re The Dream Workers,” says Ari, fighting her nerves, “And this is 9 Crimes.”

They play. Arthur and Dom are serious, frowning, fingers quick and focused, but Ari relaxes quickly, puts on a show. It always did come easier for her. They come third place. 

  
They go out onto the street afterwards, bursting with success, the winter air cold, the sweat drying on their clothes, passing a WKD between them. Dom gives Ari a piggyback ride and she spills it down his shirt, laughing and saying, “Sorry baby,” and giving him a kiss on the cheek. Tipsy and happy, she pulls Arthur in for a kiss too, sloppy and warm, and he laughs, says, “I’m not drunk enough for  _that_  just yet.”

Dom shrugs.

“I probably am.”  
  
Ari giggles and kisses him again.

 

Arthur gets a few university offers. That world seems so alien, so distant. He can’t think about them just yet.

 

* * *

  
  
January. Arthur realises that Imran’s just going to keep using him. When he asks when this will be over, Imran just laughs and says, “I thought you said you’d do  _anythin’_  for Eames?” And fuck, he would. If he has to do this, then he will. But he hates this. Hates what he’s doing. Hates drugs. Hates dealers. He passes addicts curled up in doorways, their eyes glazed over, their heartrates fast as rats’. They’re the empty shells of people. They scare him. Repel him. He tries not to look at them. Doesn’t want to have anything to do with them.

 

The thing is, he already has.

“Arthur? That you?”

Arthur stops, the weight of his name heavy in his ears.

“Arthur?”

Arthur looks at the figure saying his name. One of the junkies, slumped against the wall, dirty and shivering. He takes a step closer.

“Don’t you remember me, babe?”

 _Babe_. Of course. He’s only known one person who’s called him that. He only knows one person who’s had little pinpricks on the inside of his arm.

“Yes, Nash,” says Arthur, “I remember.”

He looks at Nash, the pathetic figure he is now. So, this is what he’s become. It didn’t take him long to lose himself.

“Didn’t know you were into this shit,” says Nash, nodding to the small package in Arthur’s hand.

“I’m not. This isn’t for me.”

“You’re dealing?”

“No. Just… delivering.”

Nash gives him a sideways look.

“Now what on earth did you do to wind up doing that?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Long story.”

“You never did like talking much, did you?”

“Talking is hardly what you were interested in.”

Nash spreads his hands.

“Can you blame me?”

“Yeah. Yeah I can, actually.”

  
The next time he sees Nash, he crashes into Arthur, weak and desperate. He begs Arthur to give him something, eyes wide, hands shaking. Arthur gives in. He’s scared. He’s scared of what Nash might do. He’s scared of what Nash is now. He’s scared of himself now, too. They’re both monsters. Drugs made Nash a monster. Love made Arthur one. They’re both as deadly as each other.

 

Then Nash finds him one night, soaked in rain, hair stuck to his head, eyes empty. Says, “Help me.”

And Arthur, God help him, does.

  
Arthur doesn’t know why he cares about Nash. Why he gives a shit about whether he spends the rest of his life on the streets, lying and stealing to get a drug that’s slowly killing him. Maybe he wants to see if a person can leave the thing they need most. Maybe if Nash can get off his addiction, Arthur can get off his. Although his drug of choice is quite different.

 

* * *

 

February. One day, Arthur signs in to UCAS Track, and finds he’s got another offer. Oxford University. He can hardly believe it.

  
Valentine’s Day. Couples walk into college holding hands. Dom finds a card in his locker. Ari bites her lip and looks innocent. Arthur feels sick. He gives in. He phones Eames. He’s missed him. He still misses him. He’s like Nash. He’s trying to be without Eames, but he just can’t stick it. He might be telling Nash that he needs to stop, but in the end, he can’t stop himself.

 

* * *

  
March. Arthur helps Nash through the tough times. He finds a charity that can help, but there’s so much they can do, and so much you have to do yourself. It’s a starting point. The rest Nash has to do himself. Arthur tries to be there for him. When he goes cold turkey, when he gets violent, when he screams and cries because Arthur won’t give him what he wants. When he’s exhausted, when he collapses sobbing, and Arthur holds him, silent, because he doesn’t know what else he can do. Nash loves him and hates him, as he loves and hates the drugs. He wavers. He goes clean, he goes back. It’s impossibly hard.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Nash asks.

“I don’t know. I suppose… I’m forgiving you for what you did to me.”

“What  _I_  did to  _you_? You walked out on me, Arthur. You messed up my head.”

“You fucking touched me up. I didn’t ask for that.”

“You gave as good as you got.”

“That doesn’t mean – I – I didn’t know what I wanted, okay?”

“That is okay. But then don’t blame me. How could I know what you wanted if you didn’t know yourself?”

Arthur knows he’s right. He didn’t know what he wanted then. He doesn’t now.

 

* * *

 

April. He stops doing what Imran wants. He doesn’t say anything. He just doesn’t turn up anymore. Imran finds him at college.

“Forgotten our deal, ‘ave ya, gayboy? You give me what I want, an’ ya boyfriend don’t go ta prison.”

“You say one word against Eames and I’ll tell the police what I’ve been doing for you. You’ll be in prison with Eames then. I don’t think you’d like that, would you?”

Imran shoves Arthur’s head into a locker. Leaves.

Stalemate.

 

* * *

 

May. Eames turns up out of the blue. He tells Arthur everything that’s happened to him since they’ve been apart, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Arthur can barely take them all in. Eames tells him he’s a thief, tells him he’s a liar, tells him he’s a bad person and he doesn’t know what to do. Arthur lets him confess, because Eames needs someone to be brave. Arthur wishes he could do the same. Wishes he could break down, tell Eames about Imran, about Nash. But he doesn’t. He just holds Eames and shuts his eyes, because things may be awful, but he has Eames in his arms, so it can’t be that bad. Nothing is impossible when they’re together like this. That’s why he tells Eames to finish his A-Levels, to come back home to him. That’s why he tells Eames he’ll be waiting for him at the station when he comes home. Because, right now, it’s not impossible that Eames comes back and kisses him. It’s not impossible that Eames comes back and loves him. It’s not impossible now. It is, later.

 

The deadline comes when he has to put down his firm and insurance choice for university. He puts down Oxford and Birmingham. Because, right now, it’s not impossible.

 

* * *

 

June. Nash gets worse. Arthur’s doing his exams. He needs to get three As. He needs to get to Oxford. Because it’s possible now, it’s within his reach. He doesn’t have time for Nash. His life just isn’t as important as Arthur’s right now.

 

“Ugh,” says Ari, “All that is getting me through these exams is the thought of me and Dom in Paris.”

“You two at uni in the city of love,” says Arthur, “Do you think you’ll do any actual work?”

“Shut up! We’re just friends. Anyway, I’ll be far too busy learning to be an architect to think about him. Not that I do anyway. Well, I mean, I do, but not in that way.”

“Don’t tell me nothing’s ever happened between you.”

“It hasn’t!”

Arthur gives her a look.

“It was just once. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

Arthur thinks about what Eames said, that love always matters, and wonders if that’s true for Ari, for a girl in love with someone who doesn’t love her back.

“Anyway,” says Ari, “What are you going to do about Eames?”

“Who says I’m going to do anything about Eames?”

“Come on. It’s been eight months since he left and you haven’t moved on. I think you’re going to do something about him. Or just do him. I mean, you’ve certainly taken your time about it.”

“ _Ari_! I’ll see him when he comes back after exams. That’s all. We’ll… see how it goes.”

Ari stops smiling, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Arthur, just – just be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Arthur smiles.

“I think it’s a bit late for that now.”

 

* * *

   
  
July. Arthur gets a phone call. It’s the police. They want him to identify a body. 

That moment, the world stops.

 

And then he’s looking down at a pale corpse, its face harsher and more angular in death than it was in life, a mess of bruises blotched across its neck. And he thinks, addiction is ugly, but death is far, far worse. It just serves to show how wasted life is.

“How did you know I knew him?” Arthur asks afterwards, sat in the canteen in the police station, an untouched cup of coffee on the table in front of him.

“There was a note,” says the police officer, “It was addressed to you.”

  
_Arthur_

_This is a fight I can’t win. Not even with you standing alongside me. I’m going to kill myself before this drug can. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to get better, for you. I suppose I love you. I don’t suppose you love me. I don’t suppose you ever would. Thank you for everything, babe._

_Nash_

  
“Fucking idiot,” Arthur breathes, his head in his hands, “Jesus fucking Christ. What a  _fucking_  idiot.”

He doesn’t know who he’s talking about.

  
He goes home, curls up in bed, cries. Wakes up the next morning feeling like shit. And then he realises that yesterday was the day Eames was coming home. And he’s missed him. He goes to him the next day, tries to explain, but Eames won’t let him. He doesn’t listen. And Arthur just can’t be bothered with this shit. Someone has  _died_  and Eames is giving him shit for not picking him up at the fucking train station. He’s tired of giving other people so much of himself. He’s tired of Eames expecting so much of him. Eames is the one who fucked off to Wales. Who left him to ferry drugs, to care for a drug addict, to hurt himself again after months of being okay. He shuts himself in his room and cries. It’s becoming a habit now.

 

* * *

  
August. Eames apologises. Arthur forgives him. Of course he does. He doesn’t know how not to. 

  
Wednesday morning. Arthur goes to the funeral parlour.

“I want to kiss him. Can I do that?”

The funeral director shakes her head.

“I’m afraid that Mr Nash said he didn’t want Samuel in the chapel of rest to visit.”

“Please. I just… I want to say goodbye.”

“Listen, love, I know how you feel –”

“No you don’t! You fucking  _don’t_! Don’t you know why he’s here? He  _killed_  himself. He loved me and he  _killed_  himself. He was going to get off the drugs. He was going to be okay. And then he fucking  _hanged_ himself. So don’t you  _fucking_  tell me you know how I feel.”

 

She lets him kiss Nash, after that. It’s the first time he’s ever kissed Nash. There’s something so fucking pathetic about that.

“I’m sorry,” says the funeral director, “You must have loved him very much.”

“No,” says Arthur, “I don’t think I did.”

  
They’re the only people at the funeral. Nash’s dad doesn’t come. Ari holds Dom’s hand tightly, her makeup smearing, as they stand by the grave. Arthur slips his hand into Eames’. The sun shines fiercely. They stand there, the four of them, smothered in black, facing death. And this is how it ends for Nash. With a handful of people standing around his grave on a midsummer’s day.

“At least now he’s in a better place,” says Ari.

“He’s not anywhere,” says Arthur, “Except in a hole in the ground.”

Eames squeezes his hand.

“Oh, darling.”

Arthur falls into him, presses his head into Eames’ chest, lets Eames hold him tightly.

“What was the point? What was the point of any of it?” says Arthur.

Eames presses a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head.

“Sometimes there isn’t any point. Sometimes things just happen. You couldn’t change his death, but you changed his life. And he loved you for it.”

“Love. Is that it? What does that come to?”

“Love always matters, darling.”

Arthur shuts his eyes, wonders if that’s true for Nash, a boy in love with someone who didn’t love him back. Wonders if that’s true for him, a boy in love with someone who keeps making mistakes. He looks up at Eames.

“I don’t know that it does.”


	3. Eames

September. They don’t break up. They don’t break up, because they’re not together. Never have been together. Arthur’s forgiven him. Eames doesn’t deserve it, but he has. They’re friends again. Friends in an awkward, quiet, not-quite kind of a way. Like how you are with your ex, or your estranged brother, or the boy you love so much you can barely breathe some days for want of touching him. Eames hasn’t pushed Arthur for anything more than this. He can’t. Not after everything that’s happened.  _They_  are never going to happen. So, they don’t break up. They just… fall apart.

 

Ari and Dom go to study architecture in Paris. The underground’s crowded, muffled voices over the tannoy, footsteps on the hard floor, harsh white lights, hot, stale air. Ari kisses Arthur goodbye, hard, on the lips, mascara running down her pale face.

“Careful, love,” says Eames, her arms wrapped tightly around Arthur, “You’ll make me jealous.”

“Oh, come here,” she says, and kisses him too.

She’s forgiven him, now. Now that Arthur has. She loves Arthur fiercely, but she loves Eames too.

“Crikey. I suppose now it’s too late to propose a threeway?” says Eames.

Ari laughs and hits him, keeps hugging him as Dom shakes Eames’ hand stoically.

“No kiss from you?” says Eames.

“Watch it,” says Dom, but he’s smiling.

They get on the tube, a crush of people, and wave until they’re out of sight. Eames looks at Arthur.

“It’ll be you next.”

And that’s Ari and Dom gone now, for five, six years, however long it takes to make you an architect. It feels like forever.

 

* * *

 

  
  
October. Arthur goes to Oxford. The train pulls in. Eames does nothing. Just. Stands there.

“Well,” says Arthur, “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah. Good luck.”

Arthur looks at him for a moment, then pulls him into a tight hug, his face buried in Eames’ jacket.

“Hey,” says Eames, “Hey.”

Arthur makes a few dry sobs, and Eames kisses the top of his head, holds him, because it’s all he can think to do. He loves Arthur. He loves him so fucking much. He promises himself that, when Arthur comes back, he’ll kiss the living daylights out of him.

Here’s a secret: he doesn’t.

 

Eames stays in London. Gets a job at Mr Muhammad’s corner shop. Earns less than five quid an hour. Sneaks himself the odd pack of fags when the boss isn’t looking. Moves in with a few of the lads he used to play basketball with at college. Neil and Jamal and Ryan. Gets drunk Friday nights. Starts, slowly, to hate who he is.

 

* * *

 

  
November. Arthur’s left Eames behind. They don’t talk much anymore. The odd text, the odd phone call. Arthur talks about his new friends, the city, his classes. Eames talks about his odd customers, his mates, Friday nights out. They’re not who they used to be. They used to be two college kids who loved each other more than anything. Now they’re just… old friends. Oh yeah, we went to sixth form together. That’s ages ago now. Wonder what he’s up to these days. Eames starts to forget Arthur. Starts to forget himself. Starts to forget everything.

 

* * *

 

  
  
December. When Arthur comes back for Christmas, he feels like a stranger. He’s not the pale, skinny boy Eames used to know. His cheeks are red, pinched with health. His body’s fuller, broader – he’s been eating more. He’s  _well_. He’s happy. He’s – he’s everything Eames has ever wanted for Arthur. Everything he wasn’t able to give him. It was his new friends at uni, the ones he’s always talking about. They’ve made him happy, made him healthy. It wasn’t Eames. He didn’t do that. Arthur is fine without him. Arthur doesn’t  _need_  him. Not anymore.

“You’ve put on weight,” Eames says when he hugs him.

“Yes, I forgot to mention I’m pregnant with your child.”

“Who else’s could it be?”

“No-one’s,” Arthur says quickly, “Come on, let’s go.”

  
Arthur’s parents are away, so he stays at Eames’ for the night. They walk home, the sky black, the streetlights painting them with yellow light. Eames lets them into the flat, small and cramped and ugly.

“Well, I bet you’re tired,” he says, “You can have my bed. I’ll make sure you don’t get up too early tomorrow.”

“Eames,” says Arthur, catches his sleeve.

And Eames should kiss him now. Should forget they’ve ever been apart. Forget that he ever let Arthur go. Forget that anything’s changed since the day Arthur first kissed him. But he can’t.

“Goodnight, darling,” he says, and kisses his forehead.

Arthur looks down.

“Goodnight.”

And they both know that’s it. It’s never going to happen. It might have, once. But not now. Eames curls up on his side on the couch and bites the blanket so his sobs are quieter. He wants to crawl into bed with Arthur, whisper that everything’s okay, kiss him, touch him. But he doesn’t.

  
Arthur goes home the next day.

Eames tries to pretend it doesn’t feel like his heart’s been bitten out.

 

* * *

 

January. Arthur goes back to Oxford. Eames goes headfirst into self-hate. Arthur’s a smart kid at uni, and Eames –  _Eames_  is a fucking low life. He used to be more. He used to love Arthur so much it hurt. Now he’s just. Numb.

“‘ow was your boyfriend?” asks Neil, when Eames comes back from the station, “Arthur, innit? ‘e’s nice.”

Eames is staring at his hands, face blank.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He never was.”

“Ah, sorry, mate. I just fought – well, anyways, come at with us tanight, get pissed, yeah?”

 

They go to a dingy club that stinks of urine and alcohol. A girl with bleached blonde hair gives Eames looks from across the room. He goes up to her because he can. Because he’s angry. He feels the warmth of her, the narrowness of her waist, the broadness of her hips. She feels so different to Arthur. She feels  _wrong_. He doesn’t want her. He wants Arthur. Arthur, happy and beautiful and very, very far away. Eames tells himself he’s stupid to want him. Because it’s stupid to want what you can’t have, what you will never have. But this girl is here, and she wants Eames. So he takes her round the back of the club and fucks her against the wall. It’s dark and it’s dirty and he covers her mouth with his hand so she can’t cry out. He doesn’t want to hear her. He doesn’t want to see her. He just wants to feel, and forget. He pulls down his fly and pulls up her skirt and shoves his cock into her and he isn’t gentle. He’d try to think about Arthur, try to imagine it’s him, but he can’t. Because Arthur wouldn’t be like this. He would kiss Eames, open and hot and slow. He would smile as Eames touched him, gentle, like he was made of glass. He would be slow and sweet, letting Eames lie back as he rode him. He would moan and murmur, and groan when Eames called him ‘darling’. He would be everything. If only Eames could have him. Beneath him, the girl whimpers and shivers and leans up to kiss him. He pushes her back down, fucks into her harder. He’d be gentle with Arthur, but not with her. Not with some nameless girl from a grimy club.

“Fuck, I’m gonna –” she moans, and comes, panting and sweat-sticky.

Eames doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, keeps on pushing until he comes, shuddering and stiffening against her. And then it’s over and then it hits him, what he’s done.

“I’m Charmaine, by the way,” she says, grinning, Eames still leaning against her, still inside her.

He straightens up, pulls away, does up his jeans.

“Well?” says Charmaine, “En’t ya gonna give me your number?”

Eames steps back.

“No,” he says, “I’m not.”

And leaves. Disgusted at her. At himself.

 

* * *

  
  
February. Eames is a fucking mess. He’s surviving on alcohol and fags and painkillers. All nicked from Mr Muhammad’s shop, of course. He goes out. Another girl, another name. And another, and another. One of them jerks him off in the corner of a club, is pissed when he won’t do the same. One of them sucks him off in a bathroom stall, ignores it when he says the wrong name. One of them lets him fuck her up the arse while her parents are asleep, thinks it’ll make him like her. He tries not to look at their faces. He tries not to remember their names. He tells himself he hates Arthur. Knows he doesn’t. Not really. Wants to talk to him. Wants to be with him. Wants to hold him, kiss him, love him. Screams because he can’t have him.

 

* * *

 

March. Neil stops him before he goes out Friday night.

“Mate, we is well worried abat you.”

Eames shrugs, tries to brush past him.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not. You’ve been fucked up for weeks.”

“What, you mean I can’t go out and have fun?”

“Oh, yeah, because you’re ‘avin’ so much fun, en’t you? You’re really fuckin’ enjoyin’ life.”

“What the  _fuck_  do you know about it?”

“I know you en’t been the same since your boy left. I fink ‘e’s why you’ve been actin’ like such a fuck-up.”

“Arthur. His name was Arthur.”

Neil puts a hand on Eames’ shoulder, looks at him seriously.

“ _Arthur_ , right. Nice boy, en’t ‘e? Mate, you can’t go on like this. Talk to ‘im.”

“I never want to see him again,” says Eames, and storms out the front door.

 

* * *

 

  
  
April. Things aren’t good. Eames is a torn, scrunched-up piece of paper, all anger and hate and self-destruction. He’s stuck in a dead-end job. He’s in love with someone he can’t have. He’s not going anywhere. He’s never going to be anything.

  
Email from Ariadne, out of the blue.

  
_Hey Eames,_

 _Just thought I should drop you a line. I know it’s been a while. I haven’t forgotten about you. I hope you’re okay. I worry about you. I miss you. Paris gets lonely sometimes. I mean, Dom’s here, but he’s not always_ here _. He’s met a girl. So, yeah, I guess I know how you must feel now, about Arthur and his boyfriend. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about a lot of things these days. I’ll see if I can come home soon. I want to see you again. Be okay._

_Ari xxx_

 

Eames doesn’t register what he’s read at first. He just keeps reading and rereading the email. He keeps rereading one line.

_Arthur and his new boyfriend._

_Arthur and his new boyfriend._

_Arthur and his new boyfriend._

Arthur’s moved on. And Eames hasn’t. He doesn’t know how to. He doesn’t think he ever can. He’s not going anywhere. He never will.

He finishes a bottle of vodka. Then a bottle of painkillers.

 

He wakes up. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a disappointment.

“Hey.”

He looks up. Sees someone sitting beside his bed.

“Arthur?”

Arthur smiles, but it’s different. His face is bruised and beaten.

“You look awful,” he says.

“Have you seen yourself?” says Eames, “What the fuck happened?”

“ _You’re_  asking  _me_  that question? Excuse me, but who’s the one in fucking A&E?”

“I’m fine. Just had a bit much to drink.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Not to  _me_. You owe me that much.”

“I don’t  _have_  to tell you anything! I don’t even know who you  _are_  anymore. You’ve barely spoken to me in months.”

“ _You_  didn’t speak to me  _at all_  when you fucked off to Wales for a year!”

“I didn’t  _want_  to leave you! But  _you’ve_  left  _me_  now. You’ve buggered off to uni, and I’m fucking around here on minimum wage.”

“And whose choice was that? You could have gone to uni, if you’d actually got up and  _done something_ about it.  _You_  got yourself into this fucking mess, Eames. So don’t you  _dare_  tell me it’s my fault. Because it’s  _not_. I have  _never_  done  _anything_  but love you.”

 

Eames frowns.

“Don’t say that. I know you don’t mean it. Say that to your boyfriend.”

Arthur looks down, face guilty.

“So you know about him.”

“Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”

“Why do you think  _I’m_  here?”

Eames shrugs.

“I don’t care.”

“But I do. Eames, I  _care_  about you. I want you to be okay. I want you to be happy.”

“And you think I can do that without you?”

Arthur leans closer, takes Eames hands.

“You fucking idiot. You didn’t need to do this. To hurt yourself. I fucking  _love_  you. I always have.”

He sighs, leans into Eames in an awkward hug. He’s skinny again. Eames can feel it.

“I can’t be happy without you, either,” Arthur breathes.

He presses a kiss to Eames’ cheek, looks up at him.

“Look at us, Eames. We’re both as fucked up as each other.”

Eames softens.

“I should never have let you go.”

“But you did.”

Arthur pulls his hands away.

“I have to go.”

“What? No! No, stay.  _Please_.”

Arthur shakes his head, wordless. He kisses Eames’ forehead, eyes shut, hands curling into Eames’ shoulders. Finally pulls away. Eames catches his wrists.

“Arthur,  _please_. I don’t know what to do without you.”

“Take care of yourself, Eames.”

“ _Arthur_  –”

But he’s already gone.


	4. Arthur

October. Arthur goes to university. Arthur loves university. He loves the city, the people, the freedom. He has friends. He has fun. He brings mugs of coffee round to the other rooms on his floor the day they move in. He signs himself up to a heap of clubs on Freshers’ Week. He chats to people after lectures. He’s not pushed out anymore. He’s part of something. He used to wish he was like everyone else. Now, he is. He forgets his guitar, shoved under his bed. He forgets Eames, left behind in London. He forgets who Arthur Levine used to be.

A few texts to Eames, a few phone calls to mum, but apart from that, he’s a new person. He’s bright, confident, happy. He’s a normal teenager. He didn’t have a fucked-up relationship with a junkie when he was sixteen. He didn’t cut himself because he hated everything around him. He didn’t have a pathetic crush on a private school kid for months. He’s okay. He always has been. 

He’s aware of the people watching him when he goes out with his new friends. Sometimes girls, sometimes boys. It’s strange. It’s new. Eames used to be the only person who wanted him. Now… it looks like there are a lot of options. He doesn’t do anything. If anyone gets a bit pushy, he laughs it off. Says he has a boyfriend back home, because that sounds better than  _I’m still in love with the first boy I ever kissed. The_ only _boy I’ve ever kissed._  Then he watches them smile and walk away, and thinks,  _what would have happened if I said yes_? He doesn’t get an answer.

 

* * *

  
  
November. And then he meets someone who changes things. Someone who makes him want to say yes. He’s one of those boys you just can’t take your eyes off. Icy eyes and prominent cheekbones and raven hair. Arthur sees him on campus, feels his stomach  _drop_ , the way it did when he first saw Eames. Pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, marches to his next lecture. Tries to forget about him. he wouldn’t want Arthur anyway.

  
He sees the boy again. Keeps seeing him. Keeps thinking about him. Thinks about what his hands would feel like, or his lips, or his tongue. Thinks about tangling his fingers in his hair, kissing his neck, touching his body.

  
“Thought you might be cold,” the boy says one morning before class, their breath clouds of mist in the cold air, handing Arthur a polystyrene cup of coffee.

“Oh, um, thanks,” says Arthur, fumbling to take it.

The boy smiles. It’s a small, sly smile that cuts into Arthur, because it’s beautiful and real and terrifying. He sits down on the bench next to Arthur.

“I’m Robert,” he says, holding out his hand.

Arthur takes it.

“Arthur.”

“It’s good to meet you. I’ve seen you around.”

Arthur smiles, takes a sip of coffee. Robert leans in.

“You don’t have to be shy, Arthur. I’ve seen you. I know you’ve seen me too.”

He brushes Arthur’s hair behind his ear, the contact warm and simple. Arthur doesn’t speak, just looks down, bites his lip.

“I heard you have a boyfriend,” says Robert, “Is that true?”

“Yes. Well, no. Er, kind of? I mean, there is a guy, but we’re not…”

“So it’d be okay if I did this?” says Robert, and presses a kiss to Arthur’s neck.

Arthur feels a hot shiver fall over him, turns his face away.

“So, how long do you plan to be coy?” asks Robert, his voice almost a whisper, “Because I’ll get bored of it pretty soon.”

“I’ve got a lecture,” says Arthur, starting to leave.

Robert catches his arm, pulls him back round to face him.

“Don’t go just yet. Come on, I got you coffee. That’s worth something, isn’t it? A kiss, maybe?”

Arthur just smiles.

“I’ve really got to go. Thank you for the coffee,” he says, backing away, shouldering his bag.

He feels Robert’s eyes on him as he walks away. Feels cold.

 

* * *

  
December. Robert gets his kiss. He steals it, one winter morning. Arthur’s always aware of him, watching, waiting, wanting. Circling his prey. It’s not long before he closes in.

“I’m tired of this,” says Robert, “I’m tired of not having you. Don’t make me wait.”

And then he kisses him, sharp and fast, fingers in his hair, digging into his skull, teeth nipping at Arthur’s lips. Arthur surrenders. This is a war he was never going to win. Robert smiles.

“Knew you’d come round,” he says, and leaves.

And Arthur knows, he’s just playing a game. But that doesn’t mean Arthur’s not going to play along.

  
Arthur kisses him again, because he wants him, because he makes him feel something dark and hot, something he’s never felt before, a desire that has nothing to do with love. He doesn’t  _like_  Robert. He can’t. He doesn’t  _know_  him. But he wants him. Wants him in a way that makes his skin itch. Makes him groan as he touches himself, alone in his room at night, fucking into his hand and imagining Robert is touching him, smiling that sharp smile, watching him fall apart.

“You’re eager,” Robert says, his mouth open against Arthur’s.

“Please,” says Arthur, “I  _want_ …”

“What do you want, hmm?”

“I want you.”

Robert grins, bites him.

“You fucking little slut,” he says.

Arthur pulls him closer, hands gripping onto his shoulders, sucks kisses into Robert’s neck.

“ _Robert_ ,” he says, desperate.

“I love to see you want me like this.”

Robert bites Arthur’s lower lip, stretching it out as he pulls it towards him.

“I think,” he says slowly, “You can wait for me a little longer.”

  
It’s awkward, coming home. Seeing Eames. Especially now he’s on the edge of something with someone else. The problem is, he wants Robert. But he loves Eames. He wishes Eames would kiss him, touch him. Do  _something_. Something to make him say no to Robert. Something to save him from another relationship with a boy he doesn’t love. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t save Arthur. He just… doesn’t try. It’s like he doesn’t even want him anymore. 

Well, fine, then. If Eames doesn’t want him then he’ll bloody well be with someone who does. If Arthur doesn’t deserve to be loved then he deserves to be  _wanted_.

 

* * *

  
  
January. Robert turns up outside Arthur’s room the evening he comes back to Oxford.

“You think I’ve waited enough yet?” Arthur asks, arms crossed.

Robert shrugs.

“You made me wait. I made you wait. I think we’re even now. Don’t you?”

Arthur smiles.

“I think you’re right,” he says, and Robert kisses him, hard, slamming the door behind him.

And that’s how Arthur loses his virginity, there, then, with Robert scratching his sides, pulling his hair. Arthur’s drowned in want. His want. Robert’s want. Robert’s vicious. He hurts. He strips off their clothes and throws Arthur back on the bed, sits straddling his open thighs and fucks him on his fingers, smiles as he writhes and mewls, sweating and desperate.

“Robert,  _please_ ,” Arthur begs, and Robert flips him onto his stomach, pushes into him from behind, slowly, agonisingly slowly.

Arthur chokes, eyes smarting, and then Robert’s done with being slow. He sets up a relentless pace, biting the back of his neck, hands shoving him down into the mattress. Arthur screams, struggles to breathe, face mashed down into the pillow. And he’s being fucked so hard he can’t think about Eames, can’t even remember who Eames is. Before long he’s humping the mattress, desperate to come, but Robert holds his hands down fast, won’t let him touch himself.

“You’re mine,” says Robert, “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” Arthur gasps out, “Fuck, Robert, please,  _please_.”

Robert touches him and he comes, screaming and crying and gasping for air.

  
Robert kisses him afterwards, tender as any lover, presses his lips to Arthur’s bruises and scratches and cuts, whispers that Arthur’s his, all his, only his. And Arthur finds himself wondering, imagining, what if it was Eames, not Robert? What if he’s given himself to the wrong boy? But it’s too late now. He’s chosen Robert. He’s chosen the one who wants him. The one who’s  _here_. And maybe that’s what he needs. Maybe that’s enough.

“You’re going to keep me,” says Arthur, tired, his voice hoarse from screaming, “Aren’t you?”

“Always,” says Robert, and kisses him so hard he bruises.

 

* * *

  
  
February. Things go bad. Things go bad fast. Robert hits him. It’s Arthur’s fault. He shouldn’t have been out so late with his friends. He shouldn’t have been talking to that guy. He shouldn’t have been giving him the wrong impression.

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur, his lip split, his mouth filled with blood, “I didn’t mean to – I didn’t think. Please, Robert. You know I’m yours. I wouldn’t leave you, not for anyone.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes. Yes, Robert. I want  _you_. No-one else.”

Robert kisses him, strokes the side of his face he’s bruised.

“You must understand, Arthur. It’s just that you’re so beautiful, I’m scared that everyone will want you.”

 

It happens again. Of course it does. Arthur’s stupid. He doesn’t  _think_  about these things. He doesn’t realise that he shouldn’t be going out with his friends so much. He doesn’t realise that he shouldn’t be chatting to Tadashi from his Physics class in his room. He doesn’t realise that he shouldn’t be Skypeing Ari so much. It’s Arthur’s fault, and he’s sorry, over and over again. But sorry’s not enough. Robert  _wants_  to trust him, but he can’t, not with Arthur acting like this. He’s lucky Robert still wants him. He starts hurting himself again, because that’s what he always does, when he’s feeling like this. When he can’t see an end.

 

* * *

  
  
March. He falls down the stairs. At least, that’s what he says if someone asks why his face is bashed in, why he’s limping, why his arm’s covered in bruises. Tadashi tries to talk to him. Arthur doesn’t want to talk.

“Arthur,” he says, “I’m not an idiot. I know you’re lying. Someone did this to you. They’ve been doing it for a while. It’s getting worse. Look at yourself. You’re a fucking mess.”

“Go away,” says Arthur, “I shouldn’t even be talking to you anyway.”

“Is it Robert? Does he hit you?”

Arthur clenches his hands into fists.

“Robert  _loves_  me.”

“Is that what he tells you? Is that what makes you think it’s okay?”

“He’s never  _said_  it. But I know he does! He  _has_  to.”

“Arthur. He’s  _hurting_  you.”

“I told you. I fell down the stairs. Stop making a big deal about it.”

 

And part of him knows, this isn’t good, this shouldn’t be happening. But he’s scared and he doesn’t know how to stop this. And he finds himself wishing for Eames, wanting for him to just  _be_  here, to tell him everything’s okay, he’s going to be okay. And then he feels guilty, and then he feels scared, because if Robert knew he was thinking about someone else, he’d be upset, and he’d hit him again. But he can’t help it. He wants Eames. He wants to be saved. 

But Eames isn’t coming to save him this time.

And Arthur doesn’t know that he can save himself.

 

* * *

  
  
April. He gets a phone call in the middle of the night. It’s Neil. One of Eames’ flatmates. Something’s happened to Eames. Arthur has to go. He doesn’t think. He just gets on the next train to London. Because he needs Eames. And maybe Eames needs him.

The nurse tells him it’s an overdose. Tells him he can sit by Eames’ bed. Tells him to sleep. He doesn’t sleep. He just sits there, watching Eames. He used to be so handsome, so strong, so confident. Now he’s a wreck. He’s pale and tired and worn. As if the past few months have been a century. He can’t save Arthur now. But Arthur can’t save him either. They’re both broken.

When Eames wakes up, everything comes falling out of Arthur. His anger. His fear. His love. And he wishes he could stay here, hold Eames, and they’ll be lost together and somehow that’ll be okay. But he knows he can’t. He can’t stay here. He can’t love Eames. Robert will  _kill_  him if he does. So he leaves. He kisses Eames, once, on his forehead. And then he goes.

  
When he gets back, dawn is breaking. He goes back to his room. Wants nothing more but to curl up under his duvet and cry his heart out. It’s dark. The window’s open, the cold night air creeping in. The lamp on his desk is on, orange light and black shadows, high contrast. Robert is there. Waiting. Curled up like a spider.

“Where have you been?”

Arthur looks down.

“ _Where_ ,” says Robert, pulling him into the room, “Have you been?”

He shuts the door. His breath is hot against Arthur’s face.

“Don’t make me do this, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up at him. At those blue eyes. He used to think they were beautiful. Now all he sees is broken glass. Hard. Cold.

“This is your fault,” says Robert, and shoves Arthur’s head back against the wall.

Arthur falls awkwardly, his back against the wall, blood smearing down the wallpaper in a long streak.

“Where have you been?” Robert repeats.

Arthur’s breathing heavily, his vision blurring with the pain. There are tears on his face, hot and salty. He can’t see, can’t think. Robert hits him again, throws him to the floor and kicks him, and Arthur curls up on his side, bruised and bleeding, sobbing as Robert kicks him and kicks him and doesn’t stop.


	5. Eames

May. Here is one way things could go: it ends there. Eames lets Arthur go back to Oxford. He lets Arthur go back to a boy who doesn’t stop hitting him. He lets Arthur go to his death, two weeks later, when that boy throws him down the stairs and his neck snaps. He lets the coroner record an accidental death, because that boy calls 999 and cries down the phone that his boyfriend’s fallen down the stairs. He lets himself go back to alcohol, to drugs. He lets himself go back to the London General, in a body bag this time. He lets them both die. For nothing.

But that’s not how things go. Because Arthur tells Eames he loves him. And Eames isn’t going to give him up. He can’t get to Arthur fast enough. He doesn’t wait to be discharged. He just gets on the next train to Oxford, to Arthur. He’s not going to let him go again. Not this time.

  
“What are you  _doing_  here?” Arthur cries when he opens the door.

If Arthur looked beaten up when Eames saw him at the hospital two days ago, now he looks fucking  _destroyed_. His body’s skinny and weak under his baggy hoodie, and he’s leaning heavily on his left side, hand gripping the doorframe to stay upright, one arm folded up and held close to his chest like he can’t move it.

“Jesus, Arthur, are you okay?”

Arthur stares at him in confusion and anger.

“You can’t be here! You – you just  _can’t_.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a boyfriend. And you can’t just turn up here and – you  _can’t_!”

Eames steps closer.

“Do you love him? Do you love him as much as you love me?”

“Don’t you fucking ask me that! As if I could  _ever_  – as if I  _could_!”

Eames comes closer, and Arthur flinches as he puts his fingers to his face, very gently, as if Arthur were some beautiful relic behind glass in a museum.

“Then be with me,” says Eames, “Darling, be with me.”

“I  _can’t_.”

“You  _can_! Just come with me. It’s that simple. Just come.”

Eames holds out his hand, but Arthur shrinks away.

“Just get away!” he screams, practically sobbing, “Get away from me! You’ve caused enough fucking damage already! This is all your fault! If you’d said – if you’d  _tried_  – if I knew you loved me, then none of this would have happened. We wouldn’t be in this bloody mess! I wouldn’t – oh, God.”

Arthur breaks down, his body convulsing with sobs, and Eames touches him then, takes Arthur’s head in his hands.

“Darling,” he breathes, “What’s wrong?”

Arthur shakes his head.

“You have to go. Robert will kill us if he finds you here.  _Please_.”

“Is Robert your boyfriend?”

Arthur nods, eyes shut, his breathing heavy. And Eames knows then. He knows what’s happened. He knows what that bastard has done. And he knows what he has to do.

“He’s the one who’s hurt you like this,” says Eames.

It’s not a question. It’s slow, heavy, a realisation.

“The  _bastard_ ,” says Eames, loaded with anger, “The fucking  _bastard_.”

“Eames…” Arthur murmurs, weak and indistinct.

“Is there someone you can go to? Someone’s room you can stay in for a while?”

“Tadashi lives across the hall…”

“Go there, and stay there. I’ll be back for you soon.”

He turns to go, but Arthur holds onto him.

“Where are you going?”

“To beat the shit out of your boyfriend,” says Eames, and goes.

No-one hurts his darling.  _No-one_.

 

He gets the shock of his life when he sees him. Smoking, casual as you like, under the trees.

“It’s  _you_?” he says, staring at the boy in front of him, “ _You’re_  Robert?”

The boy smiles, that little, sharp smile Eames remembers so well.

“It’s Robert Fischer,” he says, “I do have a first name, you know. Even if we never used it at school.”

Eames shoves his back against a tree.

“You hit Arthur. You fucking  _creep_. How could you do that to him? How could you touch a single fucking hair on his head? He is  _beautiful_. And you  _wrecked_  him.”

“He was broken when I got him. I don’t think the previous owner took very good care of him. I wonder who  _he_  was.”

Eames tightens his grip on Fischer’s shirt, fingernails scratching at his skin.

“You  _knew_? You knew Arthur was mine and you took him? You took him just so you could beat the shit out of him?”

“It seemed like a fitting punishment.”

“What for? Arthur’s never done anything to you!”

“No,” Fischer says slowly, “But you have.”

And it hits Eames like a freight train, the guilt. This is his fault. He’s done this to Arthur. He’s done this to his darling.

“What? I – how?” he says numbly.

Fischer shrugs with one shoulder.

“You should have found a better way of getting rid of your letters to him than just tearing them up.”

Eames remembers those words, said by someone else, some time ago.

“Saito,” he murmurs.

“He found the letters,” says Fischer, “So we read them.”

“But Saito – you  _hate_  each other.”

Fischer just smiles.

“You have  _no_  idea.”

He takes a last drag from his cigarette, throws it to the ground.

“You know, I never would have done any of it if Arthur hadn’t  _begged_  me to fuck him. Said how much he wanted to take my cock. I couldn’t refuse him. Not when he begged so prettily. And then he just lay there and took it. He was a fucking little whore for me. I bet he was never like that for you.”

Eames looks down, furious and ashamed.

“ _Oh_ ,” Fischer chuckles, “Oh, that  _is_  good. You were too much of a coward to man up and stick it in him. That makes sense. You always were a coward.”

“I’m  _not_ ,” says Eames, and punches him.

They fight savagely. Biting and scratching, punching and pulling. They fight like they’ll kill each other. Like they’ll tear each other’s eyes out and eat them. Hate is a vicious thing. Love is crueller.

  
  
“You’re making a habit of going to A&E,” Arthur says when Eames wakes up.

Eames groans, rubs his face with the heel of his hand.

“You look like shit,” Arthur adds.

“Have you seen yourself lately?”

Arthur looks down, as if he’s ashamed.

“You do realise the police are going to get involved in this,” he says.

“They won’t. Fischer won’t say anything. He doesn’t want it to come out why I hit him. He’d lose his place at Oxford if they knew.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Arthur looks seriously at Eames.

“Thank you. For coming for me.”

“Arthur, don’t – don’t  _thank_  me.”

Arthur sighs, looks across the room at where Fischer’s lying, still unconscious.

“You know, my boyfriends have been kind of shit.”

Eames manages a tight smile.

“Yeah. You’ll find a good one someday.”

Arthur slips his hand into Eames’.

“Maybe I already have.”

Eames looks at him, at the face he used to love so much, so destroyed. He smiles sadly. And pulls his hand away.

“I don’t think so, darling.”

 

* * *

  
June. Have you ever hurt someone you love? Completely, irrevocably? So much that you can’t sleep for how utterly  _disgusted_  you are with yourself? Odds are, you haven’t. Odds are, you’ve lied to your mother, you’ve hit your sister, you’ve cheated on your girlfriend – nothing you can’t forget about with a few weeks or a few pints. Odds are, you don’t hate yourself for what you’ve done. Odds aren’t that way for Eames.

You can probably imagine what he does.

But if you can’t, put this together –

Pills, alcohol, fags, girls, needles, missed phonecalls, late nights, late mornings, not feeling, not thinking, not remembering, not being, forgetting, forgetting, forgetting.

 

* * *

  
  
July. He leaves his job. He leaves the flat. He leaves Neil and Jamal and Ryan. He can’t pay the bills anymore. He walks onto the streets of London, his life bundled in his backpack, eyes bloodshot, face hollow, body skinny. He walks, unblinking, unseeing, like a zombie. He walks. And walks.

He finds a place to stay. There’s a big empty building not far from where Eames used to live. So he squats. There’s no-one else around. It’s just cold rooms with peeling wallpaper and boarded up windows and the scuttling of rats under the floorboards and old tins of paint. It’s a hollow shell.

It’s three days until Eames tears it apart.

He tears down the wallpaper, leaves the walls bare and white. He kicks down the boards over the windows, lets in the light, blinding and brilliant. He rips up the floorboards and shoves them into the old fireplace for kindling. He takes the tins of paint and writes on the naked walls with his fingers. He writes,  _I’m sorry I fucked everything up_. The rest comes from there.

He writes everything. He writes about the things he’s done, the mistakes he’s made, the hopes he’s had. He writes it to Arthur. He tells Arthur he misses him, wants him, loves him. And then he writes  _I’m probably crazy_  across the ceiling, and stops writing.

 

* * *

  
August. When Eames wakes up, there’s someone standing over him. He can’t see the someone’s face, because he’s looking up at the ceiling.

“Probably?” the someone says, and looks down at Eames.

There’s a beard on his chin and dark lines under his eyes, but he seems familiar.

“Mate, you is fuckin’  _insane_ ,” he says.

Eames breaks into a smile. A terrifying, dangerous smile.

“I didn’t use to be,” he says, his voice dry and croaky.

“You did. You was a fucking psycho when I met ya.”

Eames frowns up at him.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t ya remember me? Fuck, you is well gone.”

“Who  _are_  you?” Eames repeats.

“Imran. Imran Ali. You shanked me in year twelve?”

“Oh yeah,” says Eames, “Soz.”

  
They hated each other when they met. A lot’s happened since then. Eames talks to him like an old friend. Losing everything that matters and replacing it with drugs and alcohol seems to have made him chattier. Or it could be that now he’s got nothing, having just this feels like so much. He has someone who knew him before. Someone who remembers who he used to be. Eames can’t even remember that anymore.

“Social worker wanted me ta go college, get A-Levels,” says Imran later that evening, when they’re sitting around the fire, passing a bottle of something strong and foul-tasting between them, “I dropped at after a few months. Well, I don’t fink they wanted me there much, after they found at about the drugs. So, goin’ wasn’t ‘ard. But I did good, got a job at Tesco, worked ‘ard.”

“And then?” says Eames.

“There was a girl. I was stupid.”

Eames nods.

“I know the feeling.”

“Not exactly, gayboy.”

Eames chuckles and holds up two fingers, stealing the bottle.

“I fuck girls,” he says, “I just love a boy.”

Imran shrugs.

“Whatevs you want, I s’pose.”

“I meant, I know how you feel, we’ve both fucked it up with someone.”

“I don’t fink I’m mental as you, though,” says Imran, looking at the walls smothered in black paint.

Eames laughs, a short, hollow bark.

“This,” says Imran, gesturing at the whole room, “It’s about Arthur, innit?”

“You knew him?”

“Oh, yeah. I… I wasn’t good ta ‘im. After you, ya know.”

“What did you do?”

Imran looks down, shuffles awkwardly.

“Arthur came ta find me. ‘e begged me not ta talk ta police ‘bout you, said ‘e’d do anythin’. Like,  _anythin’_. An’ I… well, I made ‘im get drugs for me an’ me mates. ‘e didn’t want to, but I kept sayin’, you’ll do it if you love ‘im, don’t want ‘im ta go prison. An’ ‘e stopped after a while, said ‘e wouldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t see ‘im again.”

And it clicks, for Eames. All that time he was in Wales, Arthur was doing that for him. Arthur was trying to save him. Like he’d saved Arthur, once. That was a long time ago now.

“I fink ‘e loves you a lot,” says Imran.

“I know he does,” says Eames, “I wish he wouldn’t.”

They fall asleep on a tangle of clothes in front of the fire, back to back.

In the morning, Imran stays.

 

* * *

 

September. Somewhere along the lines, they stop sleeping back to back. The nights get colder and Imran huddles closer, tucks his head under Eames’ arm. Sometimes Eames wakes up early, the morning light cutting in through the empty windows, and sees him sleeping there, and realises this is it, the only person he has left, the only friend he’s got now.

  
Tuesday morning. Imran doesn’t move when he wakes up. He opens his eyes, looks up at Eames, lies there.

“She’s due today,” he says.

“What?”

“That girl I told you about.”

“You mean – she’s –”

“Pregnant, yeah.”

“You gonna find her?”

“No.”

“What about your baby?”

“It en’t mine.”

Imran takes in a long breath, sighs.

“We ‘ad a fight. I was stupid, said fings I shouldn’t ‘ave. She went at an’ met some geezer an’… Well, she’s ‘avin’ ‘is kid now. She don’t even know ‘is name. Said she met ‘im in a club, jus’ a one night fing. I said it don’t matter, I love ‘er an’ I’ll stay with ‘er. But I don’t fink I can do it. I don’t fink I can be a dad. That’s why I’m ‘ere. Runnin’ away from the best fing I’ve ever ‘ad.”

Imran covers his face with his hand.

“I love ‘er, ya know. Charmaine, she… she’s the one.”

And something sinks into Eames’ mind then. And all he can think is  _oh God no_  and  _it can’t be_  and  _fuck fuck fuck_.

“What did you say?” he asks abruptly.

“She’s the love of my life, mate, I  _need_  ‘er.”

“No, her name.”

“Charmaine.”

And Eames knows, he’s fucked.

  
He finds her the next day. He tells Imran he’s going to find a dealer and trawls through hospitals, asking if they have a girl called Charmaine on the maternity ward.

“We can’t give away personal information like that,” says the brusque receptionist at St Mary’s, “There’s such a thing as patient confidentiality, young man.”

“I’m a relative,” says Eames.

“If you were a relative, surely she’d have told you where she was.”

“We lost contact. I’m down and out, mate, she didn’t know where I was.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s really –”

“I’m the father of her kid!”

The receptionist just shakes his head.

“It seems pretty clear to me that that young lady doesn’t need a  _down and out_ , as you put it, loitering around her child.”

“So she is here.”

“No, I didn’t say that, I –”

But Eames is already gone, sprinting down the corridor.

She’s at the end of the maternity ward, sat up with her baby held close, arms wrapped around it.

“Um, hi,” says Eames.

Charmaine looks up from the tangle of blankets. Her hair’s still bleached blonde, like when Eames first saw her, but the roots are starting to grow through.

“What the fuck?” she says.

“I, er – look, Charmaine, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you can remember my name, can ya? That’s more than I can say about you.”

“Eames. It’s, it’s Eames.”

“Fuckin’ stupid name.”

“I’m a fucking stupid person.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Eames looks down at the tiny bundle in Charmaine’s arms.

“What’s his name?”

“ _She_ ,” says Charmaine, “Is called Jessica.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“She’s beautiful. An’ she’s mine. She en’t gonna ‘ave nothin’ to do with you. You en’t ‘er dad. Not really.”

“No, that’s Imran, isn’t it? I met him.”

“Where the  _fuck_  is that bastard?”

“Squatting in a house on the east side. He told me about you. That’s why I’m here. I wish – if I’d known, I would have –”

“Yeah, well you would ‘ave known, if you’d given me your number.”

Eames looks down.

“Is Imran comin’ back?” Charmaine asks.

“He will. He loves you.”

Charmaine snorts.

“Yeah, right.”

“He does. He’s just scared.”

“’ow the fuck does ‘e think  _I_  feel? Does ‘e fink it’s  _easy_ , ‘avin’ a kid? I’m sixteen, Eames. I didn’t exactly  _want_  a baby.”

“Sixteen? I… Fuck.”

“Oh, don’t you go sayin’ I’ve ruined my life, I’ve ‘ad enough people say that already. An’ it’s bullshit. Jessica is the best thin’ that ever ‘appened to me, an’ I’m gonna be ‘ere for her always, even if no-one else is.”

Eames looks at her, at how strong she is.

“You must love her very much,” he says.

“You have  _no idea_.”

Eames smiles, sad and small.

“Can I – can I hold her?”

Charmaine frowns, but holds the baby out towards him.

“Be careful.”

Eames takes her, this tiny pink creature, so small in his arms, and it’s all he can do to look at her. Her little fuzz of dark hair, her tiny snub nose, her eyes, so wide, and blue, just like his. And he knows, he loves her. His daughter. His love for her must be a fraction of what Charmaine’s is.

“She’s – perfect,” he says.

He looks up at Charmaine.

“I want to help.”

“I don’t need your ‘elp. I don’t want anythin’ to do with you.”

“I don’t even have to see Jessica again, I won’t even – just, I can give you some money. For her. Every month or so. She doesn’t need to know about me. Imran can be her dad. I just – all I do is fuck up. Let me do something good for a change. Please.”

  
Eames leaves the hospital with something he hasn’t had in a long time – a purpose. He’s going to get a job. He’s going to get money for Jessica. He’s going to love her silently, and let her grow up with people who will take care of her. That’s what’s best for her. Eames destroys the things he loves. He’s best kept away from her. He’s never going to see Charmaine or Jessica or Imran again.

  
So he goes back to the house, and paints  _St Mary’s Hospital_ on the front door. Then he leaves.


End file.
